


pages written on a wall

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (wow i'm too tired for a title and summary rn so sorry), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Pregnancy Scare, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 12:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa shares a secret with Myranda about a certain professor, and hopes he didn't hear





	pages written on a wall

**Author's Note:**

> Sentence starter prompt from tumblr: "I'm pregnant"
> 
> [Requested by a very sinful @apprenticemockingbird. I don’t know what you were expecting when you asked for this, but this was the first thing that came to mind. So uhhhh enjoy I hope? (Note: unedited, and written at like midnight)]

 

           “I’m pregnant.”

           “Girl,  _ what!? _ ”

           “Shush!” Sansa hissed, staring side-eyed across the room. She loved Myranda, but by the gods when there was some juicy gossip – and all the Old and New Gods knew  _ this _ was the juiciest Sansa had, especially since it was about  _ her _ – Myranda was a bloodhound. Her friend pushed herself closer across the seats. The hall was still empty, thankfully, save for the stragglers who had nowhere else to go at nearly eight in the morning. “Gods, Randa, can’t you ever be quiet?”

           “Okay, okay, sorry” she said, scooting even closer. Sansa could practically taste the clean of Myranda’s shampoo. Her taking a shower before an eight A.M. only meant one thing: she’d done plenty of shagging last night instead of studying for their midterm. 

           The door creaked open, another student descending down to a seat by the wall. It was still early enough Sansa could get through her  _ sordid gossip _ without the entire of the class finding out when Myranda would (and she definitely would) jump up out of her chair screaming.

           Or, she could lie. Pass it off as an April fool’s joke (in March). Sansa smashed her face in her hands. Gods, gods gods gods. She should have kept her mouth shut. But she didn’t know who else to turn to. Her mother would have her ass the minute she found out Sansa had sex with someone who A) she wasn’t married to, and B) was absolutely not supposed to be thinking about, let alone sexing up.

           Arya was out, too. She could keep secrets – like the time Sansa had accidently broke their mother’s vase, all of them blaming their dogs instead (an easy enough cover). But having someone that close to her family that knew made Sansa queasy. Jeyne and Margaery might understand, but there was too much uncertainty that they might not. Not to mention they knew too much about Sansa, being friends long before college. Myranda, at least, only knew whatever Sansa chose to share. 

           And Sansa – for some gods-stupid reason at quarter to eight on a Thursday morning – decided to share this.

           Through her palms she repeated herself: “I’m pregnant.”

           “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Didn’t think you had it in you to lose your  _ precious little virginity _ so soon.”

           Sansa bit her lips, only because her friend was true. A semester ago, Sansa would have been  _ appalled _ at the idea of losing it in college to some drunk guy at a frat party. Margaery and Myranda dragged her to one freshman year, and Sansa nearly had lost it. Some idiot with blond hair and nasty breath, with eyes and hands too obvious in their desire. Sansa was grateful when Myranda showed up and took Sansa’s place instead. The guy was too drunk to even realized he wasn’t shagging the same girl.  _ You didn’t miss much _ , her friend said the next morning.

           “It could be a scare?” Sansa added, picking at the edge of her desk. “Sometimes my period’s dumb.”

           “How long ago was it?”

           Sansa found a broken bit of the wood on the bottom of her desk, stabbing her finger into it. “Um...at the holiday party.”

           Myranda raised an eyebrow. “ _ Last  _ holiday party?” Sansa nodded. “Was that...the  _ first _ time you and Prince Charming fucked?” Sansa hesitated (she could nod  _ yes _ , since technically that  _ was _ the first time. But there had been other encounters, many encounters, before that. Some she could still feel his lips ghosting across her skin, the slow push of his fingers inside her). Sansa shrugged instead, hoping Myranda knew. She did. “Who was even… I don’t even remember who was sitting at our table. It was one of the guys there, right? Must’ve been.”

           “Yeah.”

           Myranda pouted her lips. “Nope, can’t remember.”

           “Not my fault you went hard on the pregame.”

           She shrugged. “Can’t say no to free drinks. Besides, about being preggo. I’m sure it’s nothing, if it’s only been one or two months. I’ve had my share of scares, dumb fucking thing this uterus is.”

           “Then can you  _ please _ drive me to get a test. After the midterm?”

           “What’s wrong with the shop across the street?”

           Everything. The fact that someone she knew might see her, might tell on someone who would tell on someone, until whispers echoed up to her mother’s ears. 

           When she didn’t answer, Myranda rolled her eyes, but not out of malice. “Okay, fine. But girllllll.” Myranda side-eyed the other students. And miraculously kept her voice quiet as she asked the damning question: “You  _ have _ to tell me. Who’s the lucky baby daddy?”

           He walked in right then, descending the stairs with a worn leather bag over his shoulder and a fat stack of unmarked midterms in his hands. His hair was freshly-showered, too, the ends curling against his skin. And he was wearing his glasses today. 

           Gods, she hated how beautiful he looked.

           Myranda wasn’t an idiot. She followed the line of Sansa’s gaze, and when she followed it back, smacked Sansa in the arm hard enough for the kids sleeping against the wall to startle. “Girl!” she loud-whispered. “Oh my god, no.” She looked over at him again, and he was pretending to ignore Myranda. “Oh my gods, you  _ did _ .”

           Sansa had half a mind to get up and walk out, midterm be damned.

           “How was he?” Myranda asked, squeezing up close enough and having enough sense not to yell. “Or, should I ask, how good  _ is _ he?”

           “Myranda.” The girl in question couldn’t stop smiling at Sansa, and Sansa couldn’t help but cover her face up again. “Oh gods, I shouldn’t have said anything….”

           “Oh, no, you should have said  _ everything _ . From the first time it happened. I mean, he’s definitely hot in that old guy way. Not hot hot, but I can see it. Honestly girl, I swore I had you pegged for one of the footballers, or even that bloke Harry from econ.”

           Sansa (still mortified and wishing her soul found another body to inhabit on a different plane of existence) mumbled into her hands. “He’s okay, I guess. Harry.”

           “But he’s not  _ Professor Baelish _ . What was it that got you first, girl? Getting off to the idea of those hands touching you all over? Or imagining that voice of his as he demands you to bend over like a good little girl?”

           “We can’t do this!” She shot a look at their professor, who had his back turned and was writing on the blackboard. His hands were steady, chalk fluid.  _ Midterm 1. Time remaining: 1:50 _ . Back to Myranda, with a wicked gleam in her eyes because Sansa’s defensiveness only confirmed it.  _ And so much more _ . She didn’t let her mind wander to all of the things her professor taught her, inside and outside the class. “We can’t do this  _ here _ , with  _ him _ literally right there.”

           Myranda wouldn’t budge, even as more and more students started to trickle in. “Okay, fine, spoilsport. If we can’t do it here, can I at least ask: did you guys  _ do it _ here?”

           “No!”

           “Ohhhh, you totally did!” Myranda cupped her hand over her mouth, but her smile was too big, bigger than even her face.

           “Did not!”

           “Did too.” Leaning in. “What about his office? Wait. Oh my god, don’t tell me that’s why you always had to go to office hours? Oh I’m so stupid. I  _ knew _ you actually knew what the fuck he was teaching, you’re too smart not to know.”

           “Randa, please. I need to get ready for the midterm.” And there were too many students surrounding them; Sansa wouldn’t be surprised (but she would be absolutely mortified) if some of them put two and two together to realize what Myranda was all on about. So long as he hadn’t heard them. But he had, he must have. Sansa slid her gaze over to where he sat, legs crossed atop the desk, hands folded in his lap, waiting for the rest of the class to file in. And staring at her. And smiling.

           “Honestly, girl, I’m proud of you. Nothing like getting a good dick from a hot guy.”

           “Randa.”

           She bit her lip, smile infecting her face, but Myranda finally shut up when a huge wave of students descended into the classroom. Myranda moved over to her seat – they had to sit with an empty seat on either side, for cheating purposes. As if anyone knew what they were doing. Sansa  _ barely _ knew, enough to scrape by with a low B. A grade that her professor assured her wasn’t because she was sleeping with him.  _ As for that _ , he joked once, sweat glistening off his chest as Sansa rested her head against him,  _ I’d mark your extracurricular at least a high B. Only so I’d have an excuse to teach you much more, sweetling _ .

           The thought jolted her gaze to the front of the room. 

           He was still staring at her with a grin that made her wonder (and often) what wicked things he was thinking about.

           Professor Baelish hated any student who thought to make acquaintances with him, made it clear enough the first day of class last semester that they had to address him by  _ professor _ . “I spent too much time and money to earn my degree,” he jabbed at someone who left it off. A kid behind Sansa said he just like the power of thinking he was better than them.

           And he was.

           But as much as he  _ loved _ it when Sansa called him Professor Baelish, there was a different thrill in his eyes, in his touch, when she called him Petyr.

           At eight exactly, he stood up, announced the midterm was today, and anyone who thought they were going to pass had they gone to the football game last night partying instead of studying might as well leave now. No one did. There had been grumbles before about missing the game because of the midterm – and it  _ had _ to be the one game where they pulled a win at the very end.

           And what were the forty of them stuck doing? Cramming their asses off.

           Professor Baelish strolled up the rows handing out the tests. He didn’t take any more time than necessary to hand Sansa’s hers.

           Written on the bottom in faint pencil:

_ After class, S _ .

           Not so much an offer of  _ After class? Is that good for you? _ , as much as it was a demand. He did that a lot. Expecting Sansa to do things, to know things. And when she didn’t know things, well, Professor Baelish was too willing to teach her.

           Things she never even thought of.

           And  _ S _ for  _ sweetling _ , because gods knew what someone else would think of a professor more than twice the student’s age writing something like  _ that _ on their papers. There were news stories enough to say exactly what that someone else would think. And Sansa never thought  _ she _ would be one of the girls from the news.

           Sansa never thought she would love it.

           She erased his note.

           And spent the next two hours completely unsure what crap she was writing.

           At the end, Myranda was all ready to go and continue their discussion, dive deep into the details Sansa wasn’t all too sure she was willing to share (despite the same sordid (and often, unnecessarily explicit)) details Myranda freely shared.

           “I can’t go right now,” Sansa said sheepishly, hovering at her desk. 

           Myranda just gave her a look of  _ Are you serious right now? _ Followed by a wink of  _ Make it a good one _ . 

           Someone had a question, and Sansa wasn’t sure how long she could conceivably dawdle without being too suspicious. No one else seemed to care, though, complaining about how unfair and impossible the test was. And it was. But Professor Baelish graded on attempts as much as he did accuracy. If you made your argument and proved it – even if it was wildly wrong – you at least wouldn’t fail.

           The last other student left, keeping his grumblings to himself as he climbed up the stairs and out, not paying Sansa one lick of attention.

           She watched the door close shut, the final rays of sunlight extinguished.

           “So.”

           Sansa jumped, not realizing he’d approached. He was leaning back against the row of chairs. “Y-yes, professor?” She offered, hoping maybe it was only a talk he wanted.

           Petyr stared at her, assessing her, not moving for a long while. Sansa tried to keep her eyes focused on his, but she found them wavering: to a stray curls that her fingers desperately wanted to smooth out; to the way the sweater sat perfectly on his body, not quite grandfather-ish but just enough to make her remember his age, if the grey in his hair wasn’t obvious enough. She managed to keep her gaze away from his hands, clenched around the tops of the chairs, veins moving as he stroked the fabric lazily. Like they had last weekend, trailing around her thighs, up, roving higher than any man twice her age and her professor should be.

           Except, that wasn’t the first time. Or the second. Sansa was starting to lose count.

           He exhaled through his nose. “You’re pregnant?”

           Sansa wanted to die, then and there.

           She did better this time, reigning back her lie a few seconds. “No. That was just my friend exaggerating.” Sansa offered him a smile, but even she felt out false it was.

           “Hm. Is that so.” It wasn’t a question. 

           “I promise, professor.”

           Petyr still hadn’t moved. Not as he let his eyes wander down her body (nothing  _ special _ today, because she didn’t plan on anything happening save getting a pregnancy test and maybe a smart earload from Myranda. Didn’t have to get dressed up to pee on a stick). Back up, but his gaze never finished their circuit. The lazy lick of his tongue over his lips was deliberate, she knew. Everything Petyr Baelish did was deliberate.

           “Would you?” he asked.

           “Would I...?”

           “Bend you over like a good little girl.”

           Sansa felt frozen heat shoot through every mile of veins.  _ Please, gods, please swallow me up right now. _

           He smiled. “No offense, sweetling, but Ms Royce isn’t the quietest.”

           Sansa wished she could take back the morning, suddenly wondering if the wrath of Catelyn Stark would be less horrific than the dread pooling in her stomach. “I’m sorry, professor, I… I didn’t mean to tell her  _ everything _ . It just…”

           “Just that, you promised you would keep us a secret. That was our agreement.”

           It was just as much an agreement on her part as it had been his. He didn’t want to get fired, and Sansa didn’t want her family and the world to know she was  _ impure _ and  _ wicked _ and a  _ slut _ .

           One step, that’s all it took for Sansa to  _ know _ exactly what Petyr had in mind for keeping Sansa after class. His voice was low, but demanding. “The next class in this room isn’t until noon. Until then, Ms Stark, I need you to bend over like a good little girl and take the punishment you deserve.” 

           Sansa couldn’t ignore the chill (not entirely unpleasant) that rippled down her spine. 

           Petyr crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting, Ms Stark.”

           She didn’t  _ have _ to, of course. What would he do? Complain that his student didn’t submit to his wicked desires? That wouldn’t do Petyr any bit of good.

           The problem was this: Sansa  _ wanted _ to. She wanted to so badly, to do everything he asked her to, to make him proud. To feel that high like nothing else mattered, nothing else existed, when it was just the two of them and he brought her to release.

           It was heady.

           It was addicting.

           Sansa draped herself over the chair in front of her, feeling the warmth on the seat – that hardly ten minutes ago, this room was filled with students. And even if the next class wasn’t scheduled for two hours, that didn’t mean people couldn’t wander in.

           And see a professor punishing his student.

           And see a student crying out for more.

           Sansa’s breath hitched as she felt Petyr’s legs brush against the backs of her thighs. More than that was the evidence of his need, pressing between her ass, demanding to be felt.

           He leant over her, covering her with his body. Pulled her face into his as he bit up her jaw to pull on her earlobe. Sansa curled her toes in her shoes, trying her damndest not to rub back against him. 

           His breath was hot against her ear. “This is what you get, sweetling, when you don’t follow the rules.”

           And then his body was gone, the warmth, the comforting weight of him.

           And then his hands were hitching up her skirt, rubbing her ass through her underwear. They weren’t particularly cute ones, but that didn’t matter. Petyr pulled them down just as quick, letting them fall down to her ankles as he touched her thighs, her ass, skin to skin.

           Sansa sighed at it. 

           “You like that, do you?” he said, digging both of his hands hard into her skin. Prying her legs further apart, and the cold wind tickled.

           There was no use in lying, not unless she wanted to invoke something worse. “Yes, professor…”

           Petyr trailed a finger down between her ass, stopping only when he reached her clit, flicking it. Sansa bit back a squeal. “What a dirty little thing you are. Let’s see how bad you truly are, Ms Stark.”

           The first slap was hard, right on her left ass cheek, the smack echoing loud across the room. Almost as loud as Sansa’s scream. That morphed into a moan, Petyr trailing back down to her cunt, running a finger down the slit. Sansa didn’t fight against her body this time, letting it push down against him. Against her teacher. Against the warning voices in her head telling her – time and again – that this was wrong. That it shouldn’t feel this good, not with someone like him.

           The voices disappeared when Petyr slapped her again, on the other cheek. Toyed with her cunt, pushing in just that much deeper.

           He did that for too many counts that Sansa lost track. Hurting her and bringing her pleasure.

           Petyr was too good at that.

           “What a filthy thing I’ve got here,” he said finally, her ass and thighs burning and likely bright red. Petyr brought his hand up to her face, and Sansa saw how slick they were with her need. “Look at this, at how fucking horny you are for your teacher.”

           His other hand, meanwhile, was busy buried deep in her cunt. Sansa didn’t have the energy to say anything more than the sounds that passed from her lips. She tried to nod, but she wasn’t sure if she did.

           “Clean my fingers, sweetling.”

           Petyr pressed them against her lips, the sharp scent of her overwhelming. But Sansa did as she was told, opening her mouth and taking him in. Gently at first, tongue tapping over the tips of his fingers. Down to the second knuckle, the third, until Sansa was nearly gagging on all four of his fingers. He didn’t pull out, even even Sansa felt saliva dribble from the corners of her mouth. 

           Petyr pulled her head back, her back arched painfully as he pinned her ass to the back of the chair with his thighs. The hardness of him – mixed with the friction of his pants, and the pain lacing up her ass – was too much to not rock against him. There was nothing but need clouding her thoughts. She could hear Petyr’s voice in her head, the voice of her deepest, wickedest thoughts:  _ Come, please, I want to come _ .

           “You’re a horny little thing today, aren’t you?” Petyr’s voice was on her ear again, tickling down her spine. She couldn’t reply with more than a gag, but they both knew it was  _ Yes, always, for you _ . Petyr was smiling, Sansa heard it in his voice. “Do you want me to get you off, right here? In this classroom, your ass red, your cunt dripping need down my cock? Do you, Sansa?”

           He pulled his hands far enough out for her to answer: “Yes. Please, Petyr,  _ please _ .”

           He shoved his fingers back, pulling on her head harder than before. “Good girls who follow the rules get to come. And you broke the  _ rule _ , sweetling. That doesn’t make you a good girl.”

           Sansa moaned against his mouth, grinded against him like a whore. She  _ needed _ to come. There was no way he wouldn’t let her. She needed this, needed him.

           Petyr pressed his other hand against the small of her back, prying his cock away from between her ass cheeks. Sansa whined at the loss of friction. “I don’t think you get to come, Sansa. But that’s not fair on me, who only wanted to teach you how to be good. Don’t you think?”

           No, she didn’t, but that’s not what he wanted to hear. So she nodded against his hand, hoping for mercy.

           The gods didn’t hear her.

           Sansa felt the heavy heat of his cock against her ass, skin to skin, and she wanted to cry out in frustration. Petyr grinded himself against her, and she knew he was as close to coming as she was. 

           Except she couldn’t come.

           Sansa bit down, earning a slap to her ass and an aching jaw when Petyr pulled his hand free. Not for long: fingers warm and wet from her mouth found new shelter around her throat. His thumb trailed up and down her vein. “That wasn’t nice, was it Sansa?”

           “No.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

           “No, it wasn’t.”

           Petyr trailed the head of his cock down against her cunt, pushing in just enough to make her forget everything else but the pressure between her legs. Sansa started to ride him, to earn a different pressure around her throat. “Don’t think about it, sweetling.”

           But she did. It was fucking impossible not to think about it, not when Petyr fucked her without fucking her. They hadn’t a condom, and after Sansa’s scare (which was slowly coming back to her in bits and pieces), well, seems like Petyr didn’t want to take any chances. There was no rhythm, no method, to Petyr’s fucking. Sliding the length of him against her slit, the head of his cock brushing against her clit with each thrust. Dipping into her cunt just enough to make her think maybe he would relent, would forgo the scare and his orders and let her find that sweet, blissful space of forgetfulness.

           It had to be torture for him, too. 

           Sansa knew he was close when his grip over her throat tightened. His breaths were shallower, hotter, falling on her neck between cracks in her hair. 

           Petyr pulled away and shot his come over her ass, her back. Sansa felt it dripping down her thighs as she moaned.

           Torture, not to come. She almost had, fuck, she so wanted to. 

           But the punishment therein would have been worse.

           At least Sansa knew she had plenty of orgasms coming for her obedience.

           Petyr loosened his grip on her throat, pulling one of her hands free and setting it on the mess he made on her backside. Eventually he did the same with her other hand, until her fingers were coated in his warm come.

           “You should thank me for that, sweetling,” he said, letting her wrists go. “Now you can remember what you missed as you go through the rest of the day high and needy.”

           No, she didn’t expect him to show mercy. Not yet, at least. “Thank you, professor.”

           Petyr turned her around and place a gentle kiss to her lips. It went on forever: no need or desperation on his part, no teeth and tongues, just softness and (what might be, if she squinted hard enough) love.

           “I’ll see you tonight sweetling,” he said when they finally broke away. He helped her right her clothes, taking care to leave his  _ present _ staining her skin. 

           And Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if he  _ had _ left a similar sort of present inside of her.

           The gods were funny, that way.


End file.
